Something Good
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark and Roger cope with the aftermath of a suicide attempt. written for speedrent


Author: London  
Feedback: please?  
Pairing: none. Could be Mark/Roger if you want.  
Notes: I don't know if they have Orange Grove in New York. Sorry if that's an inaccuracy.  
Warnings: suicide, self-injury, therapy, drinking, swearing, Buddhism  
Disclaimer: I do not own RENT, The Crucible, Thoreau or just about anything else.

I.  
I used to say… when I would sit up all night with my friend, when he was crying and he was so humiliated that he barely spoke to me for days afterwards, I would say that something good comes of everything. I told him he was feeling something, at least, and feeling anything is good because it means we're still alive and we can still create. Pain is passion. I couldn't make him stop hurting, so I tried to make him love the pain. I know all about loving the pain.

There is this misconception that people who enjoy pain aren't hurt when they mutilate their bodies.

It's not true. It hurts. It's the pain we love. If it didn't hurt, we wouldn't do it. I guess some might. I've met a few people in group, mostly teenagers, girls, who just want to be noticed. They do it because although they hate the pity in the eyes staring at them, at least there are eyes staring at them. Two weeks after explaining this, after covering her face at the obvious undertone of disgust in the support group, Ann's starved heart gave out. I never thought I would go to the funeral of a sixteen-year-old. I never thought anyone could feel invisible when so many people were watching.

I don't feel invisible. I feel pain. Usually I can overcome it with detachment, just stop caring. When that isn't enough, when I want to cry and swear at G-d for taking my friends away, for making me watch them die, I cut myself. When the pain inside is too much, I ease the pressure. A quick slash, near my elbow where no one is likely to see, and a trickle of blood into the sink.

I never talk about this. In group, I answer questions, but mostly remain silent. I don't want attention, just release.

Before using the razor, I would masturbate until I felt better. Nerves can give a natural high, make a person forget. Now I cry whenever I have sex which, admittedly, has not happened for a while.

Thank you for laughing. That, um, makes this a lot easier. That you're laughing, you're like a person now.

_I wasn't before?_

No.

_Why don't you tell me how you came here?_

We took the underground. Then we walked.

_All right… what was the first time you told anyone? Who did you tell?_

You mean about… about this? I never told anyone. Roger pushed open the bathroom door, took one look at me and said, 'Tell me you aren't trying to kill yourself.'

And I said, 'No, Rog, this is just my way of living.' I was already going to group, but Roger didn't know that.

_And what did Roger do?_

First of all don't say his name like you know him, because you don't. And, uh, what Roger did was grow a beard. He took every razor in the apartment and melted it. I asked what he was doing and he said, 'I'm doing you the favor you did me.'

_Do you think he identified with you? Maybe looked up to you?_

Um… do you know who Roger is? You don't. He cannot have identified with me. I'm a coward. He knows that when I stole his… his razors, my heart was pounding. I don't think Roger responds much to his amygdala. Now, see, this is why I didn't want to come here today. I said 'amygdala' so now you're probably thinking I wanted to be a doctor, neurologist maybe, when the truth is I learned about the brain in seventh grade health class.

Concerning Roger, concerning me, you don't know anything about either of us. I think you're a bad doctor because you're trying to understand why I want to kill myself, right?

_To cure, one must--_

Am I right?

_Yes, Mr Cohen. Please sit down._

You're a failure. You don't understand me. If you did, you would know that I do not want to kill myself. I really don't. In fact, I'm happy.

_You took fourteen aspirin, Mr. Cohen._

I know. It was my throat. I'm not gonna do it again, okay? It was a mistake. Won't happen again. I won't be back, and I won't thank you for your time. Goodbye.

II.  
Mark sped through the waiting room, his shoulders hunched inwards.

Roger raised his eyes, closed his notebook and followed. On the street, Mark was shaking his head as he pulled on his gloves. "Mark, wait!" Mark didn't; Roger trotted to catch him. "Mark. Come on." Autumn winds were unkind. Roger wished he had remembered his glove, then remembered that he had no gloves except the decade-old pair with holes between the fingers. "Didn't go well, I guess…"

Mark scoffed. "You don't know…"

"No, I don't." Roger hardly knew anything any more. Since the day Collins called him from the hospital, Roger barely knew his own name. He could only question—what could he have done differently? Was it too late to reverse the damage? This was his fault. He had taken advantage of Mark, ignored him… How many times had Roger laughed instead of asking how Mark felt? He had laughed about Maureen, teased Mark's marriage to his camera instead of wondering whether Mark simply could not endure his life.

Mark gaped. He pushed his cold glasses up higher on his nose. "You don't?" he asked. "I mean… I know you don't. I was kind of a jerk. Sorry."

"What, for thirty seconds?" Roger asked. He couldn't help but laugh, and immediately regretted it. Roger belittled things he couldn't manage by laughing at them. What if Mark thought he was being mocked? How much damage had been done out of Roger's selfishness? "It's okay. I've done a lot worse to you." A burst of wind cut into the tips of his ears. He turned up the collar on his jacket. "We've got a while, so what do you want to do?"

"We have plans?" Mark asked.

Roger nodded. "With Collins at the Life. Ironically because it's convenient for us. In an hour."

"So… let's walk," Mark suggested. "By the time we get home, we'll have to go out again. Let's walk."

Roger shrugged. He shivered, then glanced up at the sky. "Okay," he said.

III.  
They were late meeting Collins at the Life. "Sorry," Roger said as he and Mark paused by Collins' booth. "Looks like you had company, though," he added, indicating the slew of papers littering the tabletop.

"Yes. Sit down, I have a good one here for you, Roger."

Roger and Mark both indicated that the other should sit down first. "No way," Roger said. "I hate sliding."

"Yeah, well, given what you just made me do…"

Mark let his voice trail off, but the threat had full impact. Roger slid into the booth and Mark took the end, trying not to feel manipulative. Collins offered one of his papers. "Jennifer Shapiro," he said, "one of my favorite students. This is on Thoreau, who it may interest you to know was a 'zealot who fooled the masses with specious arguments playing into their prejudices and general dissatisfaction.'"

Roger took the paper. "Are you serious?" he asked. "What's she getting?"

"She's getting a B until she learns to edit the passion out of her term papers. Which reminds me, if you guys still need money—"

"We're okay right now," Roger interrupted.

"Yeah," Collins replied, clearly in disbelief, "well, if you need money for heating or food or anything—"

"We don't," Roger interrupted again.

Collins rolled his eyes. "I'm offering you work, not money," he said. "Tutoring, specifically. SAT tutors make at least a hundred dollars an hour, and no one is pleased with the state of public schools. Anyway, that's just an option so you aren't playing streetcorners in the rain and warping the guitar, not to mention taking your health up the ass."

"I do clubs," Roger insisted, defensive. "And what does that even mean, taking my health up the ass?"

"You also did over fifteen hundred on your SAT. Anyway, let me know if you're interested—"

"I am," Mark said. "Hey, there's Maureen and Mimi. Mimi!"

Mark stood to wave, but Roger pulled him down. "Dude!" he chided. "Mimi's staying with Maureen and Joanne for a _reason_!"

Mark stammered for a moment, "Be-because… because of… did you two…?"

Roger shook his head. "Nah, it's not you or me, actually. They—the three of them—they decided it was time for a girls' night. Oh, look, there's new guy—your friend, Mark. What's his name? Jamie! Hey, Jamie!" he called. "How's being a waiter?"

Jamie, plate pusher of the Life Café, swept over to their booth. "Hey, Roger. Hey, Mark," he said. "I heard you were in the hospital, everything all right?"

Mark's mouth went dry. Everything all right? It was such a simple, routine question, and such a difficult one to answer. Mark's heart raced and his temperature rose. The brief moment he had experienced of feeling normal again, not feeling like a freak, was gone. Mark shrank, wishing he could disappear.

"He had pneumonia," Roger said. "But don't worry, he's fine now." He threw an arm across Mark's shoulders. "And, uh, if you're feeling like working at any point, you got Orange Grove on?"

Jamie nodded. "Mm-hmm. Well, we did this morning."

"Great. Orange Groves and fries." Roger smiled at Jamie with a particular wolfish smile, one that outwardly appeared charming but sent chills down the spine. Jamie fled. "Okay, Mark?" Roger asked.

"I'm fine," Mark assured him.

A smooth, deep voice asked, "Mind if I join you?"

The sarcasm was a surprisingly small percentage of his tone. They boys raised their eyes; Collins and Mark immediately looked from Benny to Roger, anticipating sparks. Roger only shrugged. "Well, don't just stand there. If you want to sit, sit."

Vaguely, Mark wondered if the Miller reference had been intentional, and if Benny had noticed it, not that it particularly mattered. Roger had accepted Benny. Mark blushed, uncomfortable. The world was upside down, and Mark, content, self-satisfied Mark, had turned it over.

IV.  
"Hey, Mark." The door opened and closed softly. Roger sat on the bed; Mark felt the mattress shift. He clutched his pillow to his chest. G-d, he hurt. "Mark… come on, I know you're awake."

"Just leave me alone, Roger," Mark muttered.

"Can't," Roger replied sadly. "I can't put you to sleep. I have, however, brought you morphine." Unable to hide his interest, Mark twisted to glance up at Roger. "Yeah, that's right. Now, you can either have..." Roger brought two chipped mugs up from the floor, "…tea or cocoa."

Mark moaned. "You're lying," he said. "We don't have cocoa."

"None that you know about," Roger admitted. "I dipped into my stash, my precious, how-Roger-will-keep-his-sanity-through-the-winter stash. You're not going to drink, are you?"

"Not thirsty." For a moment Mark thought Roger was going to hug him, then Roger lifted Mark bodily and pushed him forward. Mark was left leaning against the wall, blushing. "Yeah, that was… taking my dignity like that…"

Roger pushed a mug to Mark's lips. The warmth of it comforted him. "You know I'll make you," Roger said, "so just drink." Mark's hands clamped around the mug and he took a shallow sip. "Good boy." Roger laughed encouragingly; Mark forced himself to smile. "Hey, so you want to hear about something cool?" he asked. "I met a Buddhist today." Off Mark's critically raised eyebrow, Roger said, "Seriously. You know how I knew? 'Cause I was standing behind him at one of those hotdog vendors and he said, 'Make me one with everything.'"

Mark laughed. "That's such a bad joke," he said.

"Hey! Shut up, four-eyes." Roger shoved Mark, unable to stop himself grinning. "And drink your fuckin' tea."

Mark slurped another sip of tea. He couldn't help but think of Roger's reaction to seeing him lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors. He had an IV taped to his arm because his throat had been irritated by excessive vomiting, monitors tracking his breathing and heart rate, and because of what he had done, restraints kept his arms practically immobile. Roger had taken one look at Mark and his eyes welled up with tears. "The fuck, Mark," he had said, and hit him, hard.

"Roger, where did you get the money for this?" he asked.

"You always keep tea in the house," Roger replied.

Mark laughed. "I know," he said, "but this has honey in it."

Roger shrugged. "I've been playing corners as well as gigs. We needed the cash," he insisted before Mark could protest. "This is… this is my Buzzline."

The pieces slowly came together. "Roger… the reason you aren't talking about hospital costs… Benny sitting with us at the Life…"

Roger sighed and stared at his hands. "I didn't want you to think about it," he muttered. "You didn't need to know."

Mark set his mug on the ground and reached out to touch Roger's shoulder. "Rog, it's not…" He knew Roger probably better than he knew himself. After all, if Mark had known himself he might have predicted his suicide attempt and not needed to be found by police, lying on the floor puking on himself. "Benny didn't do anything for you," Mark said. "He didn't do you any favors so you don't owe him anything."

Roger shoved Mark's hand away. "You can't imagine what it felt like to go to him and beg," he snapped, unsure, again, if he should laugh or cry. "The man who fucked my girlfriend, the traitor—"

"Roger…" _You did what you had to to keep me alive, and I really appreciate that._ Mark wanted to say, but it was a soft, effeminate comment, one even Mark could not make. He wanted to laugh at the hypocrisy of it. A man who was found a week ago writhing in his own vomitus could not give a basic thank-you.

Roger swiped at his eyes. "G-d, look at me. I can't do this… Mark, it's been nine days and I keep waking up in the middle of the night scared because you aren't there and what if it's forever? You've taken care of me, for over a year…" Mark had, so he knew. He, too, had woken in cold sweats and tiptoed to Roger's room, peering in to know that his friend slept, clean and alive.

It had been a tough year, and at times Mark hadn't any idea why he stayed. "Are you going to leave?" Mark asked. "I don't blame you."

Roger looked up, unconsciously shaking his head, sending curls bouncing. His lips moved, but the only sounds emitted were kittenish mewls. Finally, he swallowed hard and muttered, "Of course I'm not. I'm going to take care of you."

He looked at the floor. Mark tried to think of something, anything meaningful to say, anything besides once more, softly, saying his name. Roger shook his head firmly, laughed and stood. He pointed at Mark and said, "Drink your fucking tea."

"Where are you going?" Mark asked.

"You did the best work in recent career while taking care of me," Roger replied. "Remember?"

Mark remembered. He told Roger again and again, _Something good had to come of this._ "So… where are you going?" Mark asked again.

"To do the best work of mine."

Because something good had to come of this.

Fin!


End file.
